


The Thing About Remembering Is That You Don't Forget

by thedisgruntledone



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: M/M, Post-Star Wars: The Force Awakens, Pre-Slash, Reconditioning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 04:31:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6596746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedisgruntledone/pseuds/thedisgruntledone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing about being reconditioned is that they don't tell you what you did. You wake up, a little sick, a lot disoriented, and you're put back into your routine without so much as a by-your-leave. They don't need to tell you, you see. Because the thing about reconditioning is that it works.</p><p>Except for when it doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Thing About Remembering Is That You Don't Forget

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt for the kink meme: The First Order recaptures Finn and reconditions him. But no matter how many times they do it, he always remembers Poe.
> 
> Hope you enjoy. :)

FN-2187 opened his eyes, then shut them again against the harsh glare of the lights. His head was pounding, a sick throb that pulsed with the beat of his heart.   
  
“Get up,” Captain Phasma told him. Her voice made his head hurt worse, but he did as asked, ignoring the way that standing made his stomach lurch.  _Don’t you get sick, don’t you dare_ , he thought desperately. Sickness was weakness, and weakness would not be tolerated. He didn’t need Captain Phasma to remind him, not that she would. He’d seen what happened to those who were weak, who failed to perform to the best of their ability. The First Order was not in the habit of giving second chances for them to prove themselves. You were either one or the other, and there were no such things as warnings. Forcing himself to stand rigidly upright and stare straight ahead, FN-2187 felt more than saw Captain Phasma peer at his face. He tried to keep himself as impassive as possible, suddenly very aware that he was without his helmet. In fact, he was clothed only in the black clothes that they all wore under their armor. FN-2187 swallowed hard. Why was he without his armor? What had he done?  
  
A face flashed in his mind. Brown hair and eyes, a cocky smile. It was gone almost before he’d registered he’d seen it, and he could only stand there stupidly and blink his confusion.   
  
“Do you remember why you are here?” Captain Captain Phasma asked him, and FN-2187 shook his head. She stepped closer. He could feel her gaze like fingers on his face, probing, trying to find a way inside. He clenched his jaw against the urge to shudder and stood up straighter. After a long pause she pulled back. “Put on your uniform and report to your station immediately.”  
  
FN-2187 glanced around. His uniform lay next to the chair that he had been in when he woke. He put it on as quickly as he could, using all of his self-control to keep his fingers from shaking. Reconditioned. He’d been reconditioned, and he would never know why. Never know if he was making the same mistake again until it was too late.  
  
_Don’t be stupid_ , he told himself, pulling on his helmet at last. He allowed his face to relax, knowing that Captain Phasma couldn’t see the fear written all over it. Not that she was unaware of just how sacred he was. He knew that she was well aware of it, but she mustn’t be allowed to see it. No weakness.  _Just remember: if you haven’t been told to do it, then it shouldn't be done_. Simple, it was simple.  
  
_“You can do whatever you want now,”_  a phantom voice said softly in his ear, and FN-2187 twitched before he could stop himself.   
  
“Is there a problem, FN-2187?” Captain Captain Phasma asked, voice deceptively mild.  
  
“No, Captain,” he said, and go out of there fast. He ignored his aching head and roiling stomach. All he wanted was to get out of there. He didn’t like that small room, didn’t like that chair. Didn’t like knowing that he’d done something wrong enough that he’d had to be reconditioned. He was supposed to be the best; he had been before…whatever it was he’d done.  _I will be again_ , he promised himself.  _Failure is not an option._    
  
He got turned around, somehow, and wound up at the wrong end of the base. He frowned at the wall in front of him where he was sure a door was supposed to be, then turned around in a slow circle, trying to picture it in his mind.   
  
_“Never been much for walls myself,”_  the voice from before told him, and he knew that he had to be wrong but it really felt like someone had given his shoulder a reassuring squeeze; felt like a hand rested there companionably still, after the reassurance had been given, as though it didn't want to leave. FN-2187 hesitantly reached for his own shoulder, afraid that he would find another hand there…but it wasn’t all fear, was it? There was something else, some other feeling sparking along his nerves, something like-  
  
“And what do you think you are doing?” a voice demanded from down the hall. FN-2187 started, his hand falling away from his shoulder. A dark haired soldier was striding towards him, face drawn in a scowl. FN-2187 didn’t know how to respond. Admitting that he’d gotten lost would mean that he was weak, that the reconditioning had not worked. There would be no second chances.   
  
The officer came closer, his shoes clapping briskly against the floor. “I repeat, Trooper, what-oh.” He stopped abruptly and simply looked at FN-2187 for a moment. “I might have known. FN-2187, back from reconditioning. Well, best be off to sanitation, then. It’s that way,” he pointed helpfully over his shoulder, lips drawn into a sneer, but FN-2187 wasn’t seeing him, had barely heard a word past his designation. His head felt like it was being cleaved in two, and he remembered, he remembered -   
  
_“F_  what?-   
  
_“Well I ain’t using it -_ _  
  
“FN, huh? I’m gonna call you Finn-  
  
“Poe. Poe Dameron –  
  
“Good to meet you too, Finn.”_  
  
“Poe,” he whispered, clutching at his head. His stomach heaved and he scrabbled at his helmet, barely getting it off before he vomited all over the clean floor. He fell to his knees, retching, barely noticing the officer sprinting in the other direction, hand on his comm unit. “Poe Dameron,” he whispered again, then, “Finn. My name is Finn and I don’t belong here  _oh my go-_ “  
  
Lost in memory, he didn’t hear the footsteps, didn’t understand that he had to get up, had to move, until it was too late. He heard more than felt the blow to his head, and for a while he neither saw nor heard anything.

~****~

FN-2187 opened his eyes. He blinked blearily up at the dim light above him, and even that made his head hurt. It was pounding, and he didn’t know why. Gingerly he raised a hand to it, feeling for blood.   
  
His arm was grabbed before he could make contact, and he was dragged roughly to standing. His head swam and his stomach lurched; he held his gorge with an almost superhuman effort of will. Sweat rolled down his face in rivulets. He clenched his eyes shut and focused on breathing. _Weak_ , he thought,  _you were weak. You_  are  _weak_. And on the heels of that:  _This is your fault. Yours._    
  
“You will get a hold of yourself and you will stand straight this instant, or you will be vented,” A voice hissed at him. FN-2187 didn’t nod; it wouldn’t be appreciate and would only make his head hurt all the more. The correct way to show obedience was to  _obey_. He snapped to attention, swallowing the bile that rose in the back of his throat as his headache intensified and his stomach tried to rebel again.   
  
Captain Phasma walked into his line of sight. FN-2187 did not react. He stared straight ahead. He was not to look at her unless she told him to; he could do that much, at least.   
  
“FN-2187,” Captain Phasma said slowly, then paused. FN-2187 didn’t know what she was waiting for. She had not told him to respond. The silence seemed to stretch on forever, but FN-2187 resisted the urge to look at her. He was mortified that he even had that urge. She had not told him to look; he should not want to. He did not know why it was so hard to resist; why his eyes should want to find her. He did not know why he couldn’t focus beyond his headache and his nausea. He did not know why he was failing, or how he had failed the first time. Most of all, he did not understand why everything felt so  _wrong_. FN-2187 knew that nothing was supposed to feel wrong, or right. There was only duty. There was only the command of his superior officers, and it must be followed without question. Anything else was insubordination, and he knew he should report it. Should confess that somehow, whatever had been wrong enough with him to warrant reconditioning was still wrong, perhaps getting worse as they stood there.  
  
He kept silent. A mixture of terror and exhilaration went through him as he realized that he had no intention of telling the Captain anything. His head pounded even more sharply, as though in warning. He felt his body wanting to shake and ruthlessly suppressed it, clenching his jaw to stop whatever words might want to pour out. The pause had gone on too long; he had lost his chance to confess. He must remain silent now.   
  
“You’ve been reassigned,” Captain Phasma finally continued, as though there had been no pause. “You will dress and report to JC-0671 in section three.”  
  
He found his way to section three quickly, grateful for the helmet that hid his face as he walked. If anyone had been able to seen his face they would have marched him straight back to the reconditioning room, for he kept frowning. He knew where he was going, knew what turns to take and which corridors to follow, but as he took them his headache grew worse, and he seemed to see other halls, other turns. He wanted more than anything to stop and rest, to lay his aching head down and close his eyes, but that was not an option. It would be a long time before his mandated rest period was scheduled.   
  
_“Honestly, buddy, sometimes it’s just nice to sleep in,”_  someone said from behind him, and FN-2187 turned around, wondering who would have the audacity to even think such a thing, much less say it aloud. But there was no one there. He shook his head, knowing that it would only make him feel sicker but needing to somehow get some clarity.   
  
“Is there a problem, trooper?” a voice asked, and he turned towards the speaker, back straightening without thinking about it. General Hux stood there, his eyes boring into FN-2187 as though he could tell exactly what he was thinking, even through the face mask. Perhaps he could. There were rumors that Kylo Ren could read minds; it was possible that General Hux had the same power. Just the thought of the General knowing what had flitted through his head just moments before had FN-2187 growing cold, although he could still feel the sweat running down his face to pool in the neck of his uniform.   
  
“No, Sir,” he answered, putting the other voice out of his mind with effort. The General merely looked at him, waiting, and as something more seemed required of him he continued. “I was-“  
  
“Breaking protocol by standing around uselessly. I am aware. Tell me: what is it we do with a troopers who break protocol?”  
  
FN-2187 swallowed hard for the first time, he was beyond grateful for the voice modulator in his helmet. Though he could hear his own fear and queasiness in his voice, it came out of the helmet smoothly, without inflection. “Sir. First offense, official reprimand. Second offense, reconditioning. Third O- ”  
  
“Official reprimands are for soft leaders, and they have no place on this ship. If a soldier does not follow commands, a reprimand will do little to correct the fault. A true leader knows this, and acts accordingly.” He narrowed his eyes. “You are FN-2187.”  
  
It wasn’t a question, but the General seemed to want an answer nonetheless. “Yes, Sir.”  
  
“You’re quite fortunate, FN-2187,” General Hux told him, voice very soft. He stepped closer, his eyes like lasers filled with something close to fury but not exactly, something FN-2187 didn’t understand. Didn’t want to understand. “Most troopers who go through reconditioning don’t also receive a promotion.”   
  
General Hux studied FN-2187 a moment longer before stepping back. “Move along, trooper,” he said. FN-2187 did as he was told, moving quickly because tardiness would not be tolerated, and being waylaid by General Hux was no excuse. He had just been informed what any perceived insubordination would earn him; he did not want to test the truth of it.   
  
He discovered that he was still in sanitation, only in the officer’s area rather than the general barracks. It was a promotion of a sort, as only the most exemplary troopers were allowed near the officer’s quarters and mess area, but as the day drew to a close FN-2187 found that he would rather be back in his old station, cleaning used uniforms and emptying the trooper’s waste into the vast vacuum of space. He felt that the officers paid too much attention to the troopers in general, and he in particular seemed to draw more glances than most. He didn’t know why, and he wished that he hadn’t noticed – he wasn’t supposed to, was supposed to care only for doing his job – but notice he did, and he spent the entire day with his skin crawling, feeling eyes on him but pretending that he was focused solely on the work in front of him, and nothing else. It was a relief to head to training, and an actual blessing to be able to retire for bed, sore, exhausted, and still with a headache pounding behind his eyes.   
  
He lay in his bunk that night, eyes closed, trying to empty his mind. The physical exertion of training usually made that fairly easy, he remembered, though the memory seemed distant, as though it had happened to a different person, or occurred so long ago that it might as well have. He supposed that it was an effect of his recent reconditioning.   
  
He wondered briefly what he had done to earn said reconditioning, but as soon as he realized what he was thinking about, he turned his mind away. That kind of thinking was probably exactly what had led him to where he was, laying in a bunk surrounded by troopers whose designations he didn’t even know, head pounding and stomach seriously considering ejecting the rations he’d forced himself to bolt down during his allotted meal time.  _I have to stop this,_  he thought. He focused on his breathing, on drawing deep lungfulls of air and releasing them slowly, and before he knew it he had lulled himself to sleep.   
  
_He was hot, so hot, walking through and endless desert under a boiling sun. Looking down at himself, he noticed that he was wearing only the black shirt and pants that were worn under the regulation uniform._  What?  _He thought._ No, this is wrong. Wrong. _They were only allowed to remove their uniforms to sleep; hot or cold, the uniform was to remain on at all times. To remove it without authorization would earn him more than a first offense reprimand. It could earn him a reconditioning._ _  
  
He flinched, and instinctively looked around him, fearing that he’d been spotted. There was nothing but sand. He raised his hand to wipe the sweat off of his forehead, and noticed that he was holding something. Something brown…before he could get a good look at it, he lost his balance and fell-  
  
His knees hit hard cement, jarring his back and making his head ache. _ “Dammit!” _he yelled, wanting to punch something. There was a searing line across his back, making him uncomfortable; it burned without hurting, itched without needing to be scratched. He sensed that it had hurt, at some point, and perhaps would again, but for now it was just an annoyance._ _  
  
“Hey, it’s okay, buddy. You haven’t used those muscles in weeks; give yourself a break, alright?” He looked up, which set off a firecracker in his head. A blurry figure stood in front of him, a mix of pale and dark browns and, inexplicably, bright orange. “Try again?” the figure _ (Poe, his name is Poe, and I don’t know how I know that but I do) _asked, and reached out, slapping his helmeted head with a hand covered in blood._  
  
Finn woke with a full body jolt that nearly sent him tumbling out of his bunk. Darkness surrounded him; he could hear the rhythmic breathing of sleeping troopers. He was shaking, his head was pounding worse than ever, and the thin pillow underneath his head was damp. He raised one trembling hand to his face, finding it wet. He’d been crying, he knew. Crying in his sleep. He knew other things, too.  _I am not a designation_ , he thought, filled with exultation.  _I have a name. I have a name and I_  matter. On the heels of that:  _Poe. Poe Dameron._  He still didn’t know what that name meant; he only knew that it was important. But for the moment he had to set it aside; right then it was infinitely more important that he get away from the First Order as soon as he could.   
  
In the back of his mind there was an echo of his own voice asking someone if they could fly a TIE fighter, and he frowned. Trying to escape on a TIE fighter would be impractical; he could not fly, and anyone on the base that  _could_  would likely march him straight back to Command to be vented. He shuddered lightly. Oddly enough, he didn’t feel quite as afraid as he was positive he should; knowing that he had gotten away from them once before (because of course he had, how else would he have acquired a name?) had buoyed his confidence enough that he thought he might be able to get away a second time, if he were very, very careful.  _My name is Finn. My name is Finn and I am going to get out of here and find Poe Dameron and figure out why he’s important._  He fell asleep with a smile on his face, and if he dreamed, he did not know it.

He woke to rough hands yanking him out of his bunk. “You’re going to be vented this time, FN-2187,” Phasma told him, and he could hear the glee in her voice even under the modulation. “I only hope they allow me to do it personally.” Phasma barked at two of the troopers standing at attention to help her, and they did, securing his wrists and ankles with manacles. They did this quickly and almost impersonally, but Finn knew that the cuffs had been tightened enough to cut off his circulation on purpose. Once he was bound, Phasma shoved him ahead of her, shoved so hard that he lost his balance and nearly went to his knees. Behind him, he heard the sound of a blaster being unholstered. “You better keep your feet, FN-2187,” Phasma warned. She jabbed him in the back with the muzzle of her blaster, and they began to move forward.   
  
“Finn.”   
  
He was jerked to a halt. “Did you say something, FN-2187?” The voice was low, deadly.  
  
Finn squared his shoulders. “I said my name is Finn,” he replied, just as low. He turned a bit, just enough to look Phasma full in her faceplate. “There is no FN-2187 here. He no longer exists.”  
  
“That will be true soon enough,” Phasma replied, and then hit him. This time Finn did fall to his knees, and she kicked him, sending him sprawling.  
  
Finn’s mouth was full of blood; she had put everything she had into that punch. He spat some onto the ground and rose onto his elbows; Phasma kicked him again, and despite himself, Finn started laughing. He was going to die. There was no way to save himself from this. He was going to die, so what was the point of being scared? Why cower, when no matter what he said or did his life was finished? “Lot of anger there, Phasma,” he told her through his laughter. “If you’re not careful, that might earn you a reconditioning.”  
  
Instead of riling her up further, the words seemed to calm Phasma. She motioned briskly to the two troopers who had shackled him, and they got him under his arms and pulled him up. They half dragged, half carried him out of the room, until he finally got his feet under him and started shuffling on his own.   
  
They were nearly there when it dawned on him where they were headed. “Kylo Ren?” he asked in a small voice, the fear that had evaded him in the barracks suddenly hitting him hard enough to make his knees weak. He stumbled, but the troopers on either side of him kept him moving forward. “You’re taking me to Kylo Ren?”  
  
Phasma didn’t answer him; she merely announced into her comms that they had arrived. The door slid open. “Bring him,” said a soft, smooth voice from within, and he was forced inside.   
  
In the center of the small space was a chair much like the one he’d been released from after his reconditioning. Finn was placed into this chair and held down until the restraints had been closed over his arms and legs. There was a single light shining down upon his head, and the rest of the room was cast in shadow.   
  
“Leave us,” the voice intoned from the shadows, and the others hastily withdrew. Even Phasma was eager to leave. She seemed to have forgotten her wish to be there when Finn was dealt with. Once the door had closed behind them, a group of shadows in the corner moved, and Kylo Ren stepped out of them. Finn had seen him before, of course; they all had, at one point or another – and he had found him just as unnerving then. He thought briefly of the rumors that Kylo Ren could read minds, and shuddered.  
  
“I am impressed,” Kylo Ren murmured from behind the mask, his voice both terrifying and strangely soothing. “You’ve overcome reconditioning not once, but twice – a feat that I doubt many others could accomplish.” His head tilted to the side, “Not that we have had any basis for comparison, you understand.”  
  
Finn knew what he meant – troopers were reconditioned once, and if they failed a second time, they were decommissioned.   
  
“But then, you are something of a special case. No other stormtrooper has managed to break through a lifetime of training so thoroughly. Perhaps we should have guessed that the reconditioning would not work on you.” He shrugged lightly. “No matter.  _I_  will not fail.”   
  
Finn shook his head. “I don’t understand,” he said, voice shaking. “I thought I was going to be vented.”  
  
“Oh, no,” and now amusement colored Kylo Ren’s voice. “I have no intention of getting rid of you. I have plans for you, FN-2187.” He raised his hand, and pain exploded in Finn’s head.   
  
“My name is Finn,” he slurred, struggling to get the words out. It felt like his skull was being cut open. Memories that both were and weren’t his flashed through his mind in rapid succession: blaster fire in a desert. A hand on his helmet, smeared with blood. A beautiful girl’s furious face. Some large, hairy animal. The glow of a light saber. The same beautiful girl, laughing as she levitated fruit around his head. A small orange and white droid barreling into his legs, beeping rapid fire. A man whose face was famed by wild brown hair, smiling at him like he was the center of the galaxy. A brown jacket hanging over the back of a chair. The memories began to dissolve as soon as they appeared. Finn felt them slipping from his mind like water, and he fought it. The pain increased. It felt like his head was being ripped in two.  
  
Someone was screaming; Finn recognized the voice as his own and understood that he could stop it no more than he could stop Kylo Ren rooting through his head, taking what he pleased with no mercy, or even the slightest regard for the pain that he was causing.   
  
_No, oh no,_  he thought desperately, even as he continued to scream.  _No, I’m Finn, my name is Finn. My name is Finn and Poe Dameron is important. My name is Finn and Poe Dameron is important…My name is Finn…Poe D-D…my name is Finn…Finn…_

~*****~

FN-2187 ducked under the arm swinging towards him and struck out with his leg, knocking his opponent to the floor. Before the dazed Resistance fighter could rise, FN-2187 had him pinned on the floor, blaster against his temple. “You will remain still and silent until you are retrieved for questioning. Speak or move and I will pull the trigger.” Wide brown eyes stared up at him in unfeigned shock. FN-2187 stared back impassively. He had his orders, and would follow them. It was up to the man he currently had pinned whether he lived or died. His mouth opened. FN-2187’s finger tightened on the trigger.   
  
“That’s enough,” Captain Phasma barked. Immediately, FN-2187 pulled the blaster from the man’s head, and rose. He stood to attention, blaster lowered, and did not offer to help the man up. He rose gingerly, favoring his right leg, to face the Captain as well.   
  
“FN-1526, you will put on your uniform and rejoin your unit.” He turned to obey, limping slightly. “Wrap your leg. I trust that it won’t be a lasting injury.” FN-1526 straightened his spine and visibly forced himself to walk normally, clenching his jaw against whatever pain he might be feeling. FN-2187 didn’t see this play, having not turned to look, but he knew well enough what was happening. He would not have shown such weakness before the Captain.   
  
Captain Phasma gave him a long look. At last she remarked, “You have shown remarkable progress over the past few weeks. I believe you are almost ready for a mission.”  
  
His face remained impassive. He was behind his helmet and did not have to keep it that way, but he found that it was easy to do, lately. There was no particular pride that came with hearing the Captain’s words; he was willing to do whatever was required of him by the First Order.   
  
She studied him a moment longer, then asked, “How are you feeling?”  
  
He frowned behind his mask, confused. “Sir?”   
  
“Have you been experiencing any headaches? Nausea? They can be common enough symptoms after a reconditioning.”  
  
It was odd for her to be asking such questions, but FN-2187 did not question it. It was not his place to question a superior officer. “No, sir.”  
  
“And as for the reconditioning itself?”  
  
FN-2187 looked at the ground, clenching his jaw. “I am ashamed that it was needed, sir. I will not disgrace you or the First Order again.”  
  
“Do you feel that you are ready for a mission? Do you believe that you would be able to handle fighting the real Resistance?”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
“And should you be sent out, would you be willing to use that blaster?” she nodded to the hand still holding it.   
  
“With extreme prejudice, sir. As I would on any other enemy of the glorious Order.”  
  
Captain Phasma backed away. “Very good. Report back to your station. Your training for today is over.” She held out her hand, and FN-2187 placed the blaster in it before leaving the room. He was pleased that he had proved himself. Pleased that he was regaining the Captain's favor after having lost it so horribly. They'd never told him what he'd done to earn his reconditioning, and it didn't really matter. He'd been insubordinate; a failure. That was all he needed to know.  
  
Halfway to his destination, he was grabbed and pulled into a small room. He blinked in confusion at the two stormtroopers inside, who regarded him silently.   
  
“This is against regulations-“  
  
“Finn, it’s us,” one of the troopers said impatiently, raising his hands to his helmet and pulling it off. Despite himself, FN-2187 looked. He was handsome, with brown hair and brown eyes that grew increasingly more worried the longer he looked at Finn. “Buddy?” he asked, and that shocked him into action.   
  
He backed away from the trooper. “Removing your helmet without direction is also against regulations,” he said firmly. “What is your designation?”  
  
The man’s eyes widened, and he stepped forward. “My what? You know who I am.“  
  
“What is your designation?” FN-2187 demanded again. He frowned. He felt…odd. He shook his head to clear it, and a faint throbbing started up behind his eyes.   
  
“Finn, buddy –“  
  
“Stop calling me that!” FN-2187 said, louder than he had intended. The headache was getting worse…he heard Captain Phasma’s voice as if from far away:  
  
_“…common enough symptoms after reconditioning…”_  
  
He turned to flee, but not fast enough. They’d both forgotten the second trooper, but now they grabbed him and kept him still. “Are you sure this is him? He doesn’t seem to know you at all, Dameron, and I’m not going to keep grabbing random stormtroopers until we find the right guy.”  
  
_Dameron_ …another bolt of pain, and this time FN-2187 cried out with it, bringing his hands to his head. Of course, they hit only helmet. Past the point of caring about protocol, only needing to hold his head together before it exploded, he tore his helmet off and dropped it on the floor, raising his hands to clutch at his head.   
  
The trooper without his helmet ( _Dameron, she called him Dameron_ ) made a soft, wounded sound and reached towards him. FN-2187 flinched away, dislodging the other trooper from his side. “Get away from me,” he yelled, tried to yell, but his voice came out a strengthless whisper. His head ached so badly that he could barely think past it, and every time he heard this man, this  _Dameron_  – speak, it only grew worse. The last thing he wanted was for the man to touch him.   
  
“Finn…” Dameron said softly, face stricken, and FN-2187 crashed to his knees as the ache in his head grew even worse. His stomach heaved suddenly, and he closed his eyes as he began to be sick.   
  
“Kriff, they really messed him up,” the other trooper said. “If we ever needed proof that the First Order is a bunch of –“  
  
“Not helping, Pava,” Dameron snapped, then, his voice much closer and softer than before, “It’s okay, buddy. You’re going to be okay.” A hand landed on his back, rubbing, and FN-2187 retched again.   
  
“Please, please don’t touch me,” he said, hating how weak his voice sounded. Hating that he was begging. The hand left his back immediately, and Dameron stepped away.   
  
The other trooper, Pava, sighed. “Right. As much fun as this has been, we seriously don’t have the time. Finn, I’m really sorry about this.”  
  
_Stop calling me that_ , he opened his mouth to say, but something hit the back of his head and that was the last thing he knew for some time.  
  
His head felt a bit better, was FN-2187’s first thought upon waking. His second was that he was no longer on the  _Finalizer_. Keeping his eyes closed, he tried to assess his surroundings.  
  
He was lying on some sort of flat surface, not soft but not as hard as his bunk. The weight and bulkiness of his uniform was missing, and someone had placed a blanket over him. It was scratchy against his exposed neck and fingers. He could hear voices, but muffled, so he surmised that he was in a room of some sort, kept away from everyone else.  _Smart of them_ , he thought, and he didn't need to look at his surroundings to know that he was currently on the Resistance Base.   
  
“How are you feeling?” The voice was male, gentle, and close. He didn’t answer. There was a soft sigh. “I know that you are awake.”  
  
FN-2187 opened his eyes. The man sitting next to him was older, clad in heavy robes. The eyes on FN-2187 were sad but very kind. He looked away, choosing instead to observe his current prison. It was white and sparse, and behind the man sitting next to him there was an opening leading out into what he realized was a medical area, without even a door to make his capture complete. He could see figures beyond that door, paying them no mind as they went about their business. He turned his gaze back to the man next to him.  
  
“Do you know who I am?” the man asked. FN-2187 remained silent. The man gave him a small smile. “No, I suppose you do not. My name is Luke.” He paused, watching FN-2187’s face for a reaction, but he remained impassive.  _You will not break me_ , FN-2187 thought.  _I will give you nothing_. He could never go back to the First Order, not now, but he could keep the Resistance scum from learning anything about them from him. He could do that much.  
  
“Do you know where you are?”  
  
He considered, then gave a short nod. “Resistance base.”  
  
“Yes, that’s right. And do you know who you are?”  
  
He rolled his eyes before he could help himself. “Designation FN-2187.”  
  
Luke nodded. “FN-2187,” he repeated. “Good to meet you  
  
_(Finn)_  
  
FN-2187.”  
  
FN-2187 frowned. For a moment, he had been sure that he heard something else, some other name spoken by someone else, but Luke’s face showed no reaction. If there had been such a voice, he was the only one who had heard it.   
  
“I won’t tell you anything,” he said, after a period of silence, “so if that’s why you brought me here you might as well kill me.”  
  
“Lucky for us that is not why you were brought here,” Luke replied in a dry tone. “You were brought here to heal. Once that is done I suppose it will be your choice where to go.”  
  
FN-2187 snorted humorlessly. “Heal? I was fine; your people made me sick, and then they knocked me out and dragged me here. And now you’re saying that once my head feels better I can just leave?” He shook his head. “I don’t believe you.”  
  
“How is your head feeling, FN-2187?”  
  
He frowned. “Better, actually. Does that mean I can leave now?”  
  
The corner of Luke’s mouth twitched. “Perhaps after some rest; you’ve been through quite the ordeal.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”  
  
Another twitch. “I’ll make you a deal. If you can walk out of this room on your own power, I will personally see to it that you get a ride wherever you want to go.”  
  
FN-2187 studied him a moment. He seemed sincere. Of course he knew better than to trust any Resistance scum, but it might be beneficial to see something outside the room. He nodded. “Deal.”  
  
His head swam when he stood and he swayed a little on his feet, but after he closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths he was able to steady himself. He felt one stab of pain in his head, but then it settled into an almost gentle throbbing, and he was able to ignore it. He took a step.   
  
He was almost at the door when he saw him.  _Dameron_. At first it was just a flash of curly brown hair, but then someone moved and he was right there, speaking rapidly, his hands moving as he talked. Even though he hardly knew him, FN-2187 could see that he was keyed up, practically vibrating with a weird sort of tension, and he paused, confused by how little he liked to see him look that way. He shook his head to clear it and took another shuffling step forward.   
  
Dameron must have seen him move out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head to look at him, and FN-2187 was caught by wide brown eyes. Dameron’s mouth shaped a name,  _that_  name,  _Finn_ , the one that he’d called him over and over, and pain once again sliced through his head, worse than before. His knees buckled; he cried out and flung a hand towards the door, knowing it was too far to catch himself on but reaching anyway, desperate not to fall.  
  
He didn’t. Another, smaller person darted through the doorway and got her shoulder underneath him before he could hit the ground. She staggered a little under his weight, but held him up. “Oh, Finn,” she whispered, almost to herself, and another bolt of pain shot through his head. He wanted to tell this girl that Finn was not his name, he didn’t have a name and didn’t want one, FN-2187 was all he had ever been and all he ever wanted to be, but there was something about her…instead, he found himself clutching at her for support and letting her lead him back to the bed. She got him to sit down and then sat beside him, fidgeting.   
  
“Are you all right?” she asked, then her face twisted. “Well, obviously not, but does sitting help, at least?”   
  
He stared at her. “Why did you help me?” he asked, genuinely curious.   
  
“Because we’re friends. Or were. Before you forgot,” she glanced at Luke. “Is that okay to say?”  
  
Luke gave her a smile. “I’m not the one you should be asking.”  
  
She looked back at FN-2187, her face unsure. For some reason he couldn’t bring himself to be anything but gentle with her. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I think you have me confused with someone else. I’ve never seen you before.” He glanced back at the door, where Dameron was standing. “Either of you,” he added for his benefit, not actually meeting their eyes. He didn’t want to see the reaction of either to his words. For reasons he couldn’t understand, it bothered him to disappoint them. He flicked his eyes back towards the girl. “I don’t even know your name.”  
  
She hesitated, then reached out and took one of his hands. “I’m Rey,” she said, and pain exploded in his head. He might have screamed, but he couldn’t hear it over the roaring in his ears. He had enough time to take in Rey’s panicked face and to see Dameron dart towards him with a hand outstretched as he started to pitch forward, then the agony overcame him and he sank gratefully into the black.

 _He was terrified out of his mind, and yet there was a mad exhilaration in his belly. He was half laughing even as he screamed at the slip of a girl piloting this hunk of junk to pull up the shields. He was strapped into a chair that was sliding all over the place, trying to take out the tie fighters chasing them with a gun that refused to aim, they were very likely going to die – but oh, it was good to be there just the same._ At least if I die, I’ll do it with a name _he thought defiantly, ready for it, but then the shields went up, the gun started working properly, and he still had a chance. Then he did laugh, laughed even as the engine stopped and the ship flipped, causing them to freefall –_ _  
  
-straight into the ground with a bone-jarring thud. Everything ached, and the sun beat against him relentlessly. He opened his eyes and saw that he was in the middle of a desert. He was in his uniform but missing his helmet. Next to him lay the wreckage of a ship. He backed away from it, mouthing a name…some name…and pulled his jacket tighter around his body, shivering. It was snowing, but he had to keep moving, had to find him…he began to run, faster and faster, trees becoming blurs. Something was behind him, he could hear its breath as it chased him down, and a wild terror filled him as he began to sprint. He skidded around a corner and came face-to-face with Kylo Ren. “Traitor!” Ren screamed, and raised his hand._  
  
He opened his eyes, scream lodged in his throat, then immediately shut them again against the glare of the lights. There was an ache behind his eyes; he felt drained and slightly queasy.  _Was I reconditioned_? He thought muzzily. He had heard that the side effects of reconditioning were headaches and nausea…where had he heard that? He couldn’t think properly; his mind felt thick and sluggish; his thoughts coated in syrup.  
  
He could hear voices. Slightly muffled, only small snatches of their conversation carried to his ears. He focused on them; it seemed to help the headache. The harder he focused the clearer the voices became.  
  
“…used…forced to…”  
  
“…help him?”  
  
“…you…right? Could you..?”  
  
“Not without…damage…irreparable…risk…”  
  
“So what you’re saying is he’ll be like that forever? Never remember who he is? Never remember  _us_?”  
  
It was spoken loudly, furiously, and the voice broke on the last word. He flinched away from the barely disguised pain in that voice. He’d never heard anything like it, and he never wanted to again.   
  
“Poe -” a girl’s voice, this time, full of concern. He knew that voice.  _Rey_ , he mouthed, then:  _Poe Dameron_.   
  
The man ( _Poe. Poe Dameron. His name is Poe Dameron and I don’t know how I know that but I do_ ) interrupted her. “No, it’s fine. It is. We just – he can’t – he needs a name, okay? It doesn’t have to be Finn, doesn’t have to – but I can’t call him by the those numbers  _they_ gave him. I can’t.”  
  
He was surprised to find that he agreed with Poe Dameron. FN-2187 seemed far away, and thinking of his designation, instead of filling him with pride, now only gave him a vague feeling of distaste.   
  
“Perhaps we should ask him what he wishes to be called,” the third voice spoke up. “He’s awake.”  
  
He opened his eyes again as three people entered the room. He looked at each of them in turn, his gaze lingering on the young man with the curly hair.  _Poe Dameron_ , he thought, and on the heels of that,  _Poe Dameron is important_. He didn’t know where the thought came from, but he felt the truth of it in his bones.   
  
“Do you remember me?” the older man asked, and he nodded.  
  
“Luke,” he said, then he nodded at the girl. “Rey.” Another nod. “Poe Dameron.” The last two names caused a sharp pain to knife through his head, but he ignored it. He still wasn’t sure what was going on, and didn’t know if he ever would be, but he knew that he couldn’t let the pain stop him from trying to find out.   
  
Poe Dameron’s entire face lit up. It made his chest ache oddly; a sharp twist of almost pleasant pain that was nothing like the headache pounding behind his eyes. “Do you-what do you remember?”  
  
“I remember you taking me from the  _Finalizer_ ,” he answered carefully. “I remember waking up here. I remember what made me pass out.” He looked at Luke, unable to stand watching Poe’s face all any longer. “There’s something wrong with me,” he said.   
  
Luke nodded. “Yes. Your memories…we believe that this is more than your reconditioning. Someone has been in your head.”  
  
He shuddered. “Kylo Ren,” he said, remembering the dream. “It was Kylo Ren.”   
  
Poe swore loudly. Rey didn’t say anything, but her face went cold and still. He saw something that looked a lot like murder there and he looked away quickly. Luke didn’t react at all. “Yes,” he answered, though no question had been asked, “I believe it was Kylo Ren.”  
  
“Can it be undone? Can you fix it?” If anyone could, it would be Luke. Like so many things in recent memory, he didn’t know how he knew this, but he did.   
  
Luke gave him a half smile. “With your permission, I’m going to try.”  
  
He smiled back. “Yes. Do it. Fix it, if you can.”  
  
“Rey, Poe, if you’ll please step out of the room.” They both began to protest, but Luke held up a hand. “Neither of you are calm enough for this. He will sense it, and it will make my job harder. Pleas, step outside and I will let you know when you may return.” Rey grit her teeth for a moment, her face flashing with a terrible anger before she visibly calmed herself and swept out of the room at a brisk pace, fists clenched tightly at her sides. Luke watched her go, his face troubled.   
  
Poe looked at him for a long moment, then sighed heavily. “Right,” he muttered. He smiled a bit. “This will work,” he said, seeming to talk more to himself than anyone in the room. “Luke Skywalker is the best; he can do this. You’ll be fine.” He raised his hand as if he was going to pat him on the shoulder, but stopped just short of making contact, unsure.   
  
Impulsively, following an instinct that came out of nowhere, he grabbed Poe’s hand before he could retract it. Poe’s eyes widened, but he didn’t pull away.   
  
His headache grew much worse at the contact, but he didn’t drop Poe’s hand. Instead, he gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I will be fine. Either way, you got me out of there, and I’m not going back. I don’t want to be FN-2187 anymore.”  
  
Poe’s eyes widened, and he started to grin. “I never really liked that name. It doesn’t suit you at all.” He paused, bit his lip. “What do you think of Finn?”  
  
_Finn_. It was like being hit by a bolt of lightning; he actually felt the  _click_  happen inside his head, and wondered why it had taken so long. For one instant his head felt like it was going to explode and he clutched at Poe’s hand, closing his eyes, but then the pain had passed and all that was left was a sense of rightness, of certainty.  _I am Finn and Poe Dameron is important to_ me.  
  
Finn met Poe's worried eyes with a joyful smile. “Finn,” he answered. “Yeah, I like that.”


End file.
